


Nothing worth taking a stand for

by anwise_gamgee



Series: I will not say the Day is done [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anwise_gamgee/pseuds/anwise_gamgee
Summary: Set in my "I will not say the Day is done" universe.Told from Frodo's POV, the first few weeks of Frodo's return to the Shire, from his arrival to his flight to Crickhollow.Major angst, better read after reading the main pic  ;)
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: I will not say the Day is done [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900984
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mollyknox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollyknox/gifts), [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts), [YamBits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamBits/gifts).



When the patrol finds him, he feels both relieved and terrified. These are hobbits. They are his people, his kin of sorts. He doesn’t recognise any of their faces, but he knows they would have recognised him, had he been any different. But they don’t. And that hurts more than he has ever imagined. He feels he has not thought this through, no matter how many months and years have passed. He has never really taken time to reflect on the consequences of his coming home. It was only ever a natural impulse, an instinctive call his feet have answered on their own.

And when the hobbits gather around him and wonder out loud what he is, make rude comments on his appearance and smell, he panics. They grab him with the intent to put him in jail, as he understands, and he struggles. He shrieks and fights with the meagre strength he has left. But he soon feels dizzy and he feels the hobbits carry him away from the Water.

When he opens his eyes, darkness is all around him, with just a little bit of light coming from the window. He perceives the bars from his small cell and panics again. He doesn’t want to be exposed again to the wrath of the free people. He remembers the insults and the stones and rotten fruits and the mocking laughs… He shivers.

A door opens and there’s a voice. A voice he knows. A voice that has been on his mind and in his dreams, a voice that he loves and loathes in turn. His head is spinning with the shock of hearing again that beloved voice after so long. He doesn’t understand what the voice says, it’s speaking to someone else, not him. How could it speak to him? At some point, he does understand, the voice wants to send him away from the Shire. He tries to stifle a sob and fails. It comes out like a groan, and he prays the voice cannot recognise him. He could never. Not like this. He doesn’t know whether he wants to be recognised or not. Like everything else, it’s blurry and confused. He wants to and then he doesn’t. He wants to be home and he wants to hide away forever. He wants the voice to talk to him, soothe him, and then he wants it to go away and never come back.

And then the voice is gone.

He spends what must be hours dozing and shivering in the dark cell. Someone gives him food, he ears the plate clatter softly on the ground and catches the smell of beans. He is surprised by it, how long has it been since he tasted proper food? He closes his eyes and behind his eyelids are the flashes of his previous captors, and the dark tunnel. So dark and smelly. He gags but doesn’t vomit. He dozes off again. He can hear, faintly, the voices of the hobbits guarding him. They’re complaining about his smell. He want the voice to come back now, wants it to scold the mean hobbits, punish them for being rude. But that will not happen. How could it? He is nothing but a pile of rotten and smelly flesh, a mere shadow of his former self. He is nothing worth taking a stand for. His very soul is but a wisp of smoke in his empty skull. The voice said: “get him out of the Shire” ; he is not worth saving, not worth retrieving. He should have known. He is like a once much-loved toy dragged too many times in the mud: broken and dirty and beyond repair.

The doors opens and there are more voices. The voice is back. It enters the cell, he can hear it. And the voice tells him its name. “Sam”. He sobs. He wishes it were not true. He wishes he had been wrong. But Sam is here, and he’s gentle and careful and he wants to help. He hides his face from Sam and feels a hand touch him. He recoils and moans and shivers. And then he feels Sam stop. He doesn’t have to look to know his eyes are on him. He’s always known when Sam was looking at him, always felt that gaze like a sweet caress. It cannot be the same gaze now, maybe a stare of wonder and puzzlement. Maybe just a cold assessing of his wounds and scars, like when Sam used to tend to the plants or animals. And then Sam orders everyone out. He can understand it very clearly. The next instant, Sam leaves the cell and sobs and says he’s sorry and vomits. And then Sam is back in the cell and gently wraps him in a blanket and pushes a strand of hair out of his face. They look each other in the eyes and he’s frozen. He wants to look away but he can’t. Those sweet hazel eyes, filled with tears and sorrow and regret, pierce him through the bones. Sam cries and says something about taking him and suddenly he lifts him up. He struggles faintly, horrified by the touch. Overwhelmed by the gentleness and the softness and that feeling of safety and home. He has longed for it but was never prepared to feel it and he almost faints with the intensity. And then Sam talks again and he hears it. “Mr Frodo” he calls him. And suddenly he has a name again.


	2. Chapter 2

Frodo is aware of being taken out of the cell, out into the open. But he’s so thoroughly wrapped-up in the blanket that he can barely see. His face is pressed against Sam’s neck, and the scent, even more surely than the voice or the arms, is bringing him back home. He knows that smell, he craves for it, and he is baffled to find after so many months that he is starving for it more than he is for water or food. And he’s ashamed. But Frodo doesn’t have the strength to struggle out of Sam’s embrace, even if he knows he should. His body and soul are both exhausted, and he can only let Sam carry him wherever he wants to. Guiltily, he remains with his face pressed to Sam’s neck, breathing him in, terribly aware now of his own stench. Frodo breathes Sam in as if it could cleanse him, like inhaling hot water steam infused with thyme or rosemary. Sam feels like thyme: strong and healthy and familiar.

Frodo must have dozed off, for he is now in a very small parlour, seated on a confortable chair by a fire. There’s an old hobbit in front of him, but his face is blurry. The heat in the room is stifling, he cannot remember the last time he has ever felt that hot. Sam is no longer holding him, but standing close by. Then the old hobbit touches his cheek and Frodo sees his face. It’s Hamfast, Sam’s father, and he talks very softly. He calls Frodo “my boy” with such concern that something unlocks inside Frodo. He feels his eyes fill up with tears, but he is too exhausted to cry for good. He closes his eyes and decides to let the two hobbits do as they please. He knows them. He knows that he used to trust them. A tiny voice, so frail that he hasn’t paid it any mind for years, whispers to him that he should let Sam and Hamfast take care of him. They won’t hurt him. So he lets go.

Sam is no longer standing close by, but Frodo can hear him fussing about, clanking pots and pans or whatever is making that noise. The sound of the crackling fire is lulling him. He is taken out of his slumber by another familiar name, one so dear to him he feels his heart speed up a bit at the mention.

“Bilbo?” he croaks. But the dear old hobbit is not here, just his name. Sam fusses over him and talks about a bath and Frodo wants to protest but he cannot find his voice. He turns his head and looks at the flames. After a while, he feels the blanket is being taken away from him and he shrieks. He cannot let them see. Especially Sam. He becomes more and more conscious of himself, of who he is and who he was. The gap between the two is stretching with every look Sam casts his way. He wishes he could be like he was but a few days before, relying on pure instinct, unaware of his own filth, without any ties to his past self. But facing Sam, and his father, he has no choice but to recollect it. He has a name, and people still care. He knows he’s going to let them all down. So when Sam tries again to get him out of his clothes, he fights. He puts what he believes is the last of his strength in it, and Sam his crying and Frodo cannot bring himself to feel sorry. He must not see, he must not know. The things he’s done, the things that were done to him, it will break Sam if he sees. But Sam is too strong, and Frodo cannot fight him. Never mind if Sam gets hurt: doesn’t he deserve it for leaving Frodo behind? Yes. And no. He doesn’t know any more.

At last, Frodo is naked, shivering under Sam’s gaze. The ghost of a feeling flashes through him, when his body was healthy and strong and desirable. He would have been embarrassed to feel Sam stare at him the way he does now. But there cannot be any desire in his eyes. There wasn’t before, in the days where everything was sunny and fresh and tasty, there cannot be now, when he looks like a pile of dead meat.

Sam makes him stand up and he feels Hamfast looking, too. A different kind of look, a look of concern and assessment. He tells Sam about the damages he can see on Frodo’s body. There is no judgement, and Frodo even recognises an ounce of pity. He doesn’t know whether he prefers pity to disgust. Disgust, he knows how to deal with, now. When Sam gently stirs him to a tub of hot water, Frodo is suddenly frightened. It’s going to burn his skin, it’s going to reveal more of him under the filth and dirt. And then, the most unexpected thing happens. Sam and his father start to sing.

Frodo knows that song. He’s sung it many times, and to hear it again brings back sweet memories of Bilbo. The tub doesn’t look so frightening any more. It’s familiar, and sitting in it is like settling back in a long-forgotten favourite chair. The feeling of the hot water is weird, but soothing. Just like the song says. And Frodo closes his eyes. He feels, with a mixture of delight and shame, Sam’s hand running all over his body, soaping him up and rinsing him and massaging his limbs with careful fingers. The touch, much-longed for, revives him as much as the bath does. He still sees the gap between past and present Frodo, the abyss between who he was and who he is, but the jump doesn’t seem so impossible now. Sam massages his scalp and gently untangles his hair, and Frodo feels almost like a hobbit again. He hums the tune, and though his throat cannot make him sound like he used to, he can hear in his head what it would have been like, to sing in his own voice.

He must have fallen asleep, for when he wakes up he is in a small and confortable bed. Sam is there again and Frodo feels relief wash over him. He hadn’t even realised he’d been worried. The mattress is soft and Frodo is slightly overwhelmed with the way his body feels. It’s been years since he last slept in a bed, he doesn’t quite remember how to make himself confortable in it. Sam gently asks him to drink something and brings a cup to his lips. He remembers the burn of the poison on his tongue. He winces, knowing Sam would never give him something that could hurt him, but afraid nonetheless to take a sip. With Sam’s gentle encouragements, he takes a few reluctant sips. Then Hamfast brings in a bit of broth and Frodo wishes he could tell him how tasty and delicious it smells. He doesn’t have much strength left but manages to drink a bit of both the herbal tea and the broth. Then Sam settles him more comfortably and Frodo cannot get enough of the feel of his hands on him, swift ghosts of touch on his shoulders and sides and head. And before he realises it, he is fast asleep.

He dreams. He hasn’t slept so deeply for months, so it is only natural that with rest come the nightmares. Now that his body is safe enough, his mind wakens and it demands healing as well. But a bath is a meagre cure for what ails him. And now he has nightmares and he screams. Fear claws at him, demanding attention, and when a soft voice breaks through his terror, he doesn’t know whether he’s still dreaming. A light, and then he’s held in two strong arms, and there’s the smell of Sam all around him and he breathes more easily. He feels the frailty of his own body, the limits of his own shape, so small in comparison to Sam’s. He knows how vulnerable he is, how easily he could be broken. But in he dim room, with warmth all around him, all he can feel is strength. The strength to go on, to try and come back to himself. His senses are overwhelmed with his new cleanliness, his own smell, the softness of the sheets and the feel of Sam’s heart beating close to him, so close he cannot tell for sure whether the pulse is not his own. He hears him cooing little reassurances and he relaxes. And then, as if to test the feel of the beloved name on his tongue, he croaks :

“S-Sam.”

The arms tighten around him and he feels the other’s body shaking. The thought that he might be the cause of such sorrow is unbearable to him. He wants to hold Sam with all his might, but his arms are weak and the embrace is a poor reflect of what’s on his heart. And with this distressing realisation comes a new determination. He must regain his strength. He must be whole and healthy again, for Sam. To ease away the pain he’s caused him. He cannot bear to have him cry on his behalf and be so utterly unable to comfort him. If there is anything worth saving in him, if the poison in his veins is not running too deep, if the stain of his own despicable journey to survive can be washed away, it has to be for Sam.

Then, there’s the other stain, the one he dares not think about. But how could he not, held as he is now in Sam’s arms? He must not let it out. He should not burden Sam with feelings he cannot understand and cannot reject, out of duty and guilt. He wishes he’d let them buried in the dreadful cave, or on the shores of the Anduin, or had them dissolve when he drank the jesters’ poison. But he can still feel them, running in his veins. And he can only find relief in the frailty of his body, too weak to respond to Sam’s closeness. How terrible it would be, for Sam to discover in that way the desire he feels for him, he who is now as ugly and monstrous as any cave-creature.

He wants to crawl away from the embrace, to slip out of the bed and lie on the floor, to hide away until he can face Sam again, or not at all. But then he feels Sam’s tears drenching his nightshirt, and he remembers his own silent vow. He must be strong again. The rest doesn’t matter.


	3. Chapter 3

He gets stronger every day. A hobbit-lass, a pretty one, came to see to him and gave him some medicine. He wonders if she’s Sam’s sweetheart. She seems the kind of strong-headed and independent girl that could be his type. He wishes she is Sam’s sweetheart, and then he wishes that she isn’t.

He lies in bed a lot, he reads a little, and then Sam takes him for walks in the back garden. He loves to be led around by Sam, he can cling to his arm and hold him close. He has no right to, but he can’t help it. Sometimes he feels that Sam owes it to him. Sam has abandoned him, left him to rot, he has every right to claim him for his own. Then he is horrified by his own thought.

That afternoon, he talks, and he asks Sam about his life. And Sam doesn’t have much to say, as if his own life doesn’t matter much. And then he mentions he’s to be married. And so Frodo holds him close, while he can.

It must be Rosie. She keeps coming to the Gaffer’s little hole. He hears Sam talking to her, and the Gaffer too. So one day he asks Sam, and Sam he’s embarrassed but says that, yes, she’s the one. And Frodo pretends it’s alright and smiles and breaks a little more inside. His chance, if there ever was one, has long passed. Now he must sit and watch Sam be happy. It should be more than enough. But Sam doesn’t seem to be happy. He seems to be somewhere else, except when he takes care of Frodo. Then, he has eyes and ears only for him. And that breaks him a little too, for how can it look so much like what he wants from Sam and be so far from what he’ll ever get?

Sam has said Frodo can ask him anything. That must be the cruellest thing Sam has ever said, and he doesn’t even know it. Frodo is getting stronger, he feels his body slowly, so slowly, filling out again. He’s still ugly, and pale, and painfully thin, but he can feel his blood beating with want, with need. Every touch from Sam is a torture, and he has to rein himself hard not to kiss his face or his throat, or his mouth.

Merry and Pippin have come to see him. That makes Frodo happy. For the first time since he’s come back, he can think about something else than his own misery. His cousins have that effect on him. They cry when they see him, but they are so happy and so… normal around him! They don’t act like it’s all their fault, they don’t make him feel like a burden they have to carry. Sam’s devotion is too much to bare, makes him feel like he’s precious and easy to break. He wants to feel strong and normal. He wants to laugh and to rejoice fully, and it’s easy to do with Merry and Pippin around. And so, Sam disappears. Slowly, he becomes more distant, more absent, he goes to tend BagEnd, he says. Frodo doesn’t know how to feel about it. He’s both sad and relieved.

One afternoon, his cousins mention that, while Frodo was absent, Sam occupied the smallest room in BagEnd. For some reason, he seems to be very embarrassed about it, and Frodo feels his heart bleed a little more. Sam’s devotion is going too far, he doesn’t deserve it, and he is irritated by it somehow. He doesn’t understand it. If Sam cannot love him the way he loves him, what use is all that devotion for? But well, that’s unfair. Sam has always loved him that way, like a devoted servant, like a friend even. When Pippin makes a remark about Sam’s wedding, though, it’s too much for Frodo and he leaves the kitchen. Once in his room, he hides his head underneath the pillow and cries his heart out, as silently as he can. At some point during the afternoon, he hears someone entering quietly the room and he stiffens. When he feels a hand on his back, he sighs in relief.

“Merry” he whispers in sorrow.

His cousin doesn’t answer and stays for a while, in silent understanding. Then he says, quietly:

“If it’s too much for you, you can always come with us.”

Frodo nods, relieved.

When night comes, Frodo doesn’t feel quite better. Sam seems distant, out of reach and yet still as devoted as ever. He doesn’t understand how that is possible. He feels angry, and sad, and desperate. So he asks to join Sam on the floor. When Sam refuses, he asks him to join him on the bed, and Sam cannot refuse him that. He curls up around Sam, aware that he’s inflicting this torture on himself, aware that this might be the last time he can hold Sam like this. And so they sleep. Until Frodo wakes up, shaking with sobs, unable to stop. He feels wrong, and wronged. Doesn’t he deserve what he cannot get? He’s suffered too much! He wants it and yet he must not ask. Sam wakes up too, and he begs him to tell him why he’s crying, to tell him what’s wrong. He wants to help, to make it better. Frodo knows that Sam is the only one who can make him better, and the only one who cannot.

‘You said I could ask you anything I wanted,’ he whispers.

Frodo knows that using those words is a treachery, and yet he cannot stop himself.

‘Of course you can!’

‘Sam… Make love to me, Sam. I’m asking it of you, please…’

Frodo feels his heart beating in his chest once the words are out. He braces himself for rejection, for a violent push, for Sam to stumble out of bed and flee out the door, for a gentle refusal… anything. He hears him, like he’s far away, saying his name. And then he feels Sam’s lips on his, and isn’t it worse? Sam should refuse him. But he cannot. Such is the extent of his devotion. And Frodo wants to feel happy, but he only feels wretched and wrong and dirty.

Yet, his body his awakening, his senses are overwhelmed with the feeling of Sam all over him. When Sam’s mouth closes around his erection, he pants, and begs, he’s already close and he doesn’t want it to end. He asks Sam to wait, ready to tell him he shouldn’t, ready to tell him to stop, that this is a mistake. But instead, he says :

“Take me.”

And this time Sam seems reluctant, only a second before he finds the jar of ointment and prepares Frodo’s body with it. Frodo wants it to feels good, wants it to hurt, doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He wants Sam. He tries to turn around, to ease the way for Sam, to hide his own tears, and fear, and shame. But Sam is decided to have him on his back. Frodo feels a little thrill at the idea that Sam actually wants something. But then, it’s probably just out of concern for Frodo. He must think this way will be more confortable for him. Frodo urges him on, and Sam is in, deliciously and painfully in. It doesn’t take long before they come in silence.

Sam takes care of their cleaning, of course, and Frodo wants to keep pretending a little longer that this was fair, that Sam wanted it too, that he liked it. So he silently asks him to come back to bed and curls up with him. He pretends to sleep, waiting for the moment Sam will start to snore softly. Then he counts, one, two, three… a hundred heartbeats. He rises up quietly, tears streaming down his face. Blindly, he finds his clothes in the dark and leaves the room.

Outside, the air is fresh and crisp. He breathes in and out, replays in his head what has just happened in the little room of number 3, New Row. He trembles. He walks a few steps away from the row and empties his stomach behind a bush. He never thought, after all he’s been through, that he would stoop so low. He must stay away from Sam.

His eyes turn to the Hill, BagEnd’s green door looks grey in the twilight. He must leave. He should never have come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting and leaving kudos <3  
> I'm sorry for the level of angst in this fic, but, well, it needed to be done somehow.
> 
> I may try and write another one, in a lighter tone, about what happens in Crickhollow. And I have a mind to extend this universe: you folks have been so encouraging that I want to stay with my hobbits ^^
> 
> Love you all :))  
> Anwise


End file.
